


A Red and White Rose: An Assassins' Creed Story

by Kingsdaughter613



Series: The Judean Codex [6]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Regency Romance, Technically Georgian Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26328037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingsdaughter613/pseuds/Kingsdaughter613
Summary: Arno Dorian has a mission: infiltrate the British Rite and prevent a Templar plot to restore the French monarchy. To succeed, he will have to navigate the Ton, preferably without falling for his guide, the Lady Angelique.Lady Angelique may be just out, but she is more than ready for disappointment. The daughter of a newly ennobled peer, the Earl of Avon, she lacks the long lineage to compensate for her homely features. The last thing she expects is a mysterious, dashing Frenchman to sweep her off her feet.Intrigue and romance abound, as Arno and Angelique explore the twin worlds of society and conspiracy. But waiting in the wings is the Earl, Shay Patrick Cormac, and the secrets he holds could end the couple's prospects for good!
Relationships: Arno Dorian/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Judean Codex [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801978
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

  
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	2. In Which Our Hero Arrives in England

It was fortunate indeed that Arno Dorian, Chevalier de Thelume, was not overly inclined to seasickness; else, he was certain, the tumultuous seas striving to sink this shaky vessel would have had him bent over the bucket. Grateful though he was that such indignity was not his, sadly the same kindness had not been granted to his companions, noble refugees escaping the rigors of Revolutionary France. The Chevalier found himself desperately longing for the dangers of the decks, struck though they were by the storm’s fury, but, as such exertions were not befitting one of his station, he found himself forced to sustain himself with the faint relief offered by the sealed porthole.  
  
The ship tossed like a child’s toy before the waves, and the gathered refugees groaned in fear, beseeching God for their salvation. The Chevalier sighed wearily, laying his face against the porthole in the vain hope some small gust might find its way through the glass. “It is but a small squall,” he proclaimed, unable to wholly quash his irritation, “soon to pass. This vessel, undoubtedly, has fared far worse.” He turned his gaze to the thrashing seas, unwilling to bestow further his attentions on his fellow passengers. Unlike them, the Chevalier was no refugee.  
  
He was a _spy_.

One could be easily forgiven for believing otherwise, as his guise was such as to withstand even the highest scrutiny. Even those who held themselves to be of the greatest discernment, and could easily separate the true dandy from the aspirant by nothing more than the points of his starched collar, would not have cried foul at the sight of the Chevalier, bedecked as he was in a worn shirt of superfine, vest coat so bespattered one would be hard pressed to guess at its original colour, and trousers which had seen many days far better. One had only to note the lack of a jacket, lost in the last mad rush to the ship, the bedraggled elflocks which would be most fine, had they not been in so desperate need of a comb, and his refugee status could scarcely be more evident. This guise was completed by the cruel scar which scarcely marred the Chevalier’s handsome features, a perfect period to the horrors he had been made to endure before being driven, at last, from the land of his birth; and there was nothing, in either his manner or dress, which could lay question upon his claims, save perhaps the blade at his side which remained as sharp as the day of its forging. But this was perfectly explicable, for even with the fall of the Jacobins, France remained a place of grave danger for those of noble birth.

Nor was it dress alone with which the Chevalier had been prepared. He had been given the most exacting of instructions in the appropriate mannerisms, and furnished with all necessary information with which to accomplish his task. Too, he possessed some training in the manners of the Court which, though long neglected, were recalled with surprising ease, and had in his favor youth, even features, a fine leg, and also a lineage which carried no fault outside of being abominably French. Most excellent of all, he was unwed. To all these attributes Mr. Dorian (for he had not then been accustomed to the use of his all-but-forgotten title) had been informed, with no small degree of irony, was to be added one more, for he had a remarkable knack for forming connections with his Order’s ancient enemies. This, being otherwise a most unhappy flaw, was here a benefit, for it was those selfsame enemies he was to infiltrate.

Rumor had reached the Assassin Council of a plot to wrek havoc amongst the Directory, a matter far too easily accomplished for hardly a day might go by when some manner of discord did not assail this august body, and utilize such chaos as must invariably result from its collapse to restore the monarchy and grant the throne to Louis XVIII. This suggestion, repugnant as it was to any sensible Republican, being soon confirmed by their British Brethren, led the Council to conclude one of their own must be sent and thereby make an end of it. To this purpose was chosen a young man of not quite thirty, greatly skilled, and, in so choosing, incidentally rid themselves of Mr. Dorian’s insufferable preaching on the benefits of an alliance with their enemies. To this end, the Chevalier had been ordered aboard ship and to make all haste to the Isles, forsaking his homeland for the first time in his memory. It was, he must own, a marvelous adventure and he might have enjoyed it exceedingly had he but had a say in it. But as he had not, having instead been abruptly woken and ordered into his present garb with scarcely a minute granted to breakfast, and that only because Mme. Gouze had not allowed him to leave without, the Chevalier held himself to be sorely used.

A chiding voice drew the Chevalier from his unhappy considerations. “I say, sir! There was hardly need for such unkind ejaculations. We cannot all be so easy on the seas as you. Nor I, for that matter. I do not believe my sisters ever took sail before this journey, nor my mother, so it is only to be expected they be overcome by the adventure of it!”

At these words, the Chevalier was forced to bend, for Mr. Dominique Charmont, eldest son and heir to the Comte de Enchantee, was not given the gift of height, the top of his head reaching no higher than the chest of the Chevalier. He worn a clean, though sadly worn, waistcoat of pale blue, which stretched tight across his broad frame. His face was a homely one, and his every expression was writ large upon it. But this hardly signified, for his nature was sanguine, his demeanor jovial, his generosity as broad as his girth and his manners beyond reproach. In Mr. Charmont could be found a good and true friend, ever willing to lend ear and hand in aid of others; too, he was quick with a jest, oftentimes at his own expense, for he was well aware of the deficiencies of his appearance which he had inherited in whole from his common-born grandfather. In better times he had been a welcome guest, for the presence of Dom Charmont was sure to enhance even the dullest soirée, but the Terror had put period to such levity and he had spent the last some years sequestered in various ill kept shelters, in fear for his and his family’s lives. One could hardly guess to see him however, for he had retained his good humour and ready cheer and if, perhaps, there was a shadow in his eye where it had not been before it did not bear speaking of.

“You are quite right, I suspect,” the Chevalier acknowledged now. “I am afraid the end to our troubles has me quite put out. It is a strange thing, and hardly to be thought, but so it is. Until now, I have had but a single end, and now that I am to achieve it I find I do not quite know what I am to do. My future,” he sighed, his brows furrowed in the most tragic manner, “is entirely unknown.”

“Oh, but it is hardly to be questioned,” Mr. Charmont proclaimed. “You will find a wife, an heiress no doubt, possessed of Great Beauty, who will be utterly entranced by your tragic mien and hold there could be no greater romance than to be wed to a penniless refugee, whose griefs and travails are writ ever large upon his countenance.”

So astonishing was this prescribed future to the Chevalier, that he could not but laugh. “Was it so with your parents? For I do recall hearing a tale of that manner, though I cannot say it was they.”

“Not they,” said Mr. Charmont, “but theirs was a tale. My father seems to you now a proper gentleman, possessed of the most delicate manners, but such was not always the case, I assure you. ‘Le Bette’ he was known, in the ring and in the taverns and the gaming hells, all of which, it must be said, he frequented far too often. My mother was a merchant’s daughter, but her father had a great mind for machinery and so drew the interest of many above his rank, and my mother is a Great Beauty now, and even moreso then.”

“La Belle!” exclaimed the Chevalier. “Yes, I recall now. It was held to be quite scandalous, but none could say for whom. My sister,” for it was easier to describe Élise so, though she had been far more to him, “thought it remarkably charming.”

“It is our name,” Mr. Charmont said, a deep chuckle shaking his broad frame, “so it is only right that we are deemed so.”

“I perceive it is,” replied the Chevalier, joining his friend in mirth. They continued on in this manner, exchanging jests and amusing anecdotes, and when, not so long after, the storm had blown out its fury and the passengers were called to the deck to receive the first glimpse of England’s shores, he found himself in far better humour than he had been prior. “You will not,” the Chevalier asked his friend as the vessel prepared to dock, “consider it ill if I were to call upon you once I have seen to my own accommodations?”

“I should consider it ill if you did not,” Mr. Charmont informed him frankly. “We have endured far too much together to allow safety to divide us.”

“I should be hard pressed to term so swift a crossing ‘much’,” the Chevalier answered in the most diminishing tones.

“Ah, but even the swiftest crossing may be considered the greatest travail when it is done in close company of those better suited for dry land.” Mr. Charmont chuckled, his dark eyes dancing bright with mirth. “Certainly, _I_ held it to be so.”

The Chevalier laughed again, acknowledging yes, such uncomfortable circumstances made even short voyages interminable, and he would be certain to visit as soon as his circumstances permitted, which he allowed, “may be sooner than I had hoped, for it seems my late father made some connections here of which I was unaware before.”

Having been thus assured, Mr. Charmont bade the Chevalier farewell, and the two departed; Mr. Charmont to go with his family to Mayfair, where their English kin possessed a house near Hanover Square, and the Chevalier to find to find his contact, who was to provide him with an introduction to the Brotherhood on these shores. Perusing the docks to that end, he came upon a sight which drove from him any levity his earlier intercourse had invoked. Some distance away stood an older gentleman, garbed in a white coat of oilcloth, cut in a military fashion, and beset by a small gathering which, by virtue of some similarities in face and manner, might be acknowledged as his offspring. This the Chevalier would have disregarded, and thought them naught but ordinary travelers, save that the coat was adorned with large crimson crosses upon the wide epaulets. The significance of these were immediately evident to the Chevalier, for he recognized on the instant the symbols of the enemy Order. Thus he determined to hear what intercourse might pass between the Templar, for such the gentleman must be, and his children, lest some grave intelligence, which might be the difference between success and utter ruin, pass him by.

Affecting a manner of disinterest, the Chevalier began to stroll lazily down the docks, in such a manner as to appear merely one of the crowd and entirely uninterested in any concerns save his own. In this he was aided by the tumultuous nature of such places, for it is a rare moment when a ship is not coming or going, or a cargo not mislaid, or a captain lost in his cups who must be found and sobered, or a crew not eagerly seeking such diversions as may only be found on shore, or returning from such in a less than sober manner. Approaching the gentleman and his children, the Chevalier found for himself a place out of the eye between several stacks of crates containing whisky newly arrived from the American States and some bales of fabrics, fine silks and rough woolens, intended for the same, from which vantage he could observe his targets with little risk of being seen in turn.

“Your brother,” the gentleman was now saying, “will accompany you.” This pronouncement was met with great dismay, causing the much-beleaguered father to heave a great sigh. He was (though the Chevalier did not know) Shay Patrick Cormac, Earl of Avon, and an American. He had come by his title through the singular virtue of being in just the position to provide a Great Service to Their Majesties, in that he had risked his very life to ensure Thiers when the Royal Couple had been beset by some mysterious hooded adversaries. The identities of these remained unknown, but it was certain they intended ill upon the Persons of the Monarchs. The King, being much inclined to gratitude and having besides a fondness for the granting of Letters Patent, had been quick to ennoble His loyal Colonist, for America had yet to enter into revolt. The Earl was an older man now than he had been then, having passed his sixty-fifth year some months prior, an intelligence to which many would proclaim astonishment, for it was widely held he did not look a day above fifty, and he still possessed the sharp and regular features of his youth which were accorded most handsome. There was in his dark eyes and furrowed brows, the right of which was crossed by a faded scar, a melancholy cast which Lord Byron himself could only envy, and he was also quite charming, with a ready wit and a droll manner, so it was no wonder that many a younger woman had been quick to set her cap toward him upon learning he was a widower and once more available. Such attentions, it must be owned, were highly disagreeable to the Earl, but at this moment he found himself thinking longingly that he would much prefer being forced into conversation with some widow, or spinster, or foolish chit who thought herself the perfect mother to his poor, orphaned children than to be beset by those same offspring.

“It is too much to be borne,” the elder of his two daughters present proclaimed, her rich voice trembling with an excess of sensibility. She was in a rare temper, a sharp flush coloring her creamy cheeks, which would have a most diminishing effect on the appearance of any but Lady Henriette Cormac. She cut a striking figure, bedecked as she was in an emerald pelisse of fine wool, and an elegant gown of gray silk, touched with hints of silver at the cuffs and bodice, the whole of which was perfectly set off by a large bonnet draped in silver ribbon sitting upon her dark red curls, which fell in artless elegance about her lovely face. A simple strand of pearls cinched tight about her elegant neck, and a pair of small emerald studs completed the vision of a young woman who was widely held to be of extraordinary beauty even in her wrath, though her father was considerably less appreciative than her latest beau. “To think I shall be made to endure what is, by all intents, my first season, and Angie’s too, without my father present,” she cried, making clear by word and expression how entirely tragic such a circumstance must be to her.

Her father, proving himself once more an ill-bred American of no sensibility, was entirely unmoved. “You were out last year,” the Earl said dryly, an inelegant statement which so utterly galled his child that she must be rendered quite speechless by it, were she any less accustomed to her father’s indelicacy.

Instead, Lady Henriette gathered herself to respond primly, “But it hardly signifies, Father, because it was only at the very end of the Season and I only went to, oh, perhaps one or two dances besides.”

“One or two dozen,” remarked the father, but this rude interruption was blithely ignored, and his daughter continued with little pause.

“And it was after the Ascot, after which one can hardly call it a Season at all. Then we must return to Avon and you _would_ refuse to let me remain in town, when I could quite easily have stayed with my sister and had a gay time, instead of being trapped at Avon after the snows came, and could not go out even to visit the neighbors for some small soiree, though they lived but ten miles distant, because the little ones were forever coming down with the Cold or the Flu or the Cough. Why if you had not had to present Angie to Court, I’ve no doubt we should still be there. And,” the Lady added in the most censorious tones, “you cannot deny it is _her_ first Season.” Here, she paused and gave her sister a most significant Look.

This her younger sister understood implicitly in the manner of sisters and, seeming unprompted, spoke plaintively, “It is true, Father. It is bad enough I must be without my mother, whose advice I had always depended upon, but must you deny me of my father as well? I shall be as an orphan, cruelly deprived of both father and mother.” And here, to the awe of Lady Angelique’s siblings, a single delicate tear fell from her warm dark eyes, curving down her round, dusky cheek in the most pitiable manner, which could only fail to move the most heartless observers.

Her father, being among such evil men, only offered her a handkerchief and an amused look, which Lady Angelique held to be entirely too cruel. “Oh! But you are heartless, and lacking in sensibility besides! Did you not consider if I, or perhaps Henri, were to form a Connection? We would then need our father to grant consent, but as he will be _entirely_ unavailable, having no doubt been murdered by Revolutionaries, the news of which has not yet reached us, we would be entirely unable to do so. And Shay could not give it in your stead because the news of your untimely, and remarkably tragic death had yet to reach us, and we would have no course left us but to elope, and become entirely Disrespectable and a Great Embarrassment.”

“I do not think I should care,” the Earl noted with some amusement, “seeing as I will have tragically perished. But not,” he mused, “at the hands of Revolutionaries. No, I think I shall be lost at sea, perhaps swept away in some great storm.” He seemed little concerned at the thought of his impending demise, to the great dismay of his daughters.

“You do not care,” wailed Lady Henriette, “that we shall be Ruined!”

“And twice orphaned!” wept Lady Angelique.

The Earl, lacking any sense of preservation, had the ill grace to chuckle. “I am only going to the mainland to see to your Uncle’s affairs. He left some issues which I must care for, but I will return before the Season’s end. Any beaus you may have can certainly wait until such time, for I am afraid I should have to refuse any man who could not.”

The son, who had wisely remained silent, now spoke up. “You had best not be long,” the Viscount said crossly. “I have matters of my own to attend, and I’ve no desire to spend the whole of the season playing chaperone to m’sisters.” He nearly shuddered at the thought. The Viscount Worth was a gentleman of twenty-seven years, and shared with his father a name, height, a pair of dark piercing eyes, and a milk-pale complexion, which was considered most fetching, but there all resemblance ended, for they were as unalike in form and nature as any two might be.

The Viscount was a slender man, with delicate features and black curls piled high in a most effortless manner which had only taken his valet, a Mr. John Ballard, three hours total to arrange. The Viscount took great pride in the knowledge that unlike his father, whose garb eschewed every fashionable convention, no fault could be found in his coat of brilliant blue, his golden waistcoat, and his crimson pantaloons. His white shirt bore a high collar, starched to the stiffest point, and his cravat was tied in an elegant and complicated style as had been made fashionable by such notables as Beau Brummell himself. A bejeweled snuffbox, held loosely in one beringed hand, and a pair of fobs tucked neatly into the pockets of his elegant coat, perfectly tailored to his frame, proclaimed to one and all the Viscount’s desire to accounted amongst the dandy set. He was the eldest of the Earl’s children present, and less than pleased at being given the duty of chaperone, which seemed unlikely to fit comfortably with the lifestyle of one accustomed to long days at the Club and long nights on the town in places entirely improper for ladies.

“I am only going to France,” the Earl reminded his heir, the words spoken in a tone of wry amusement which, try though he might, the Viscount had yet to emulate. “The gaming hells will not miss you long, nor the rake houses, though my pocketbook will, no doubt, be grateful for the pause you will put to such excursions.” This inelegant statement led his daughters to loudly decry him once again for his lack of manners and sensibility, all of which, they were certain, was entirely the fault of his barbaric American upbringing.

Under cover of this excited debate, the Chevalier retreated, considerably troubled, his contact having arrived at last. His fellow Assassin was a small man, the Chevalier saw as he approached, possessed of a wiry frame, with dull eyes concealed behind spectacles, remarkable only by virtue of being entirely ordinary. His name, the Chevalier soon learned, was James Wilkinson, and he had been born in London. “So, I know most everything about it,” the man explained.

“That Templar,” the Chevalier asked, “you know him then?”

“I do,” Mr. Wilkinson answered roughly. “The Right Honorable Earl Avon.”

“An Earl!” exclaimed the Chevalier. “But I have heard him speak, and his accent is not at all English.” This was true, for the Earl was possessed of an unusual accent which was neither entirely American nor entirely Irish, a land from which he proudly claimed descent, though he bore it no connection beyond that.

“Nor is he,” Mr. Wilkinson revealed now to the Chevalier, who was unaware of such intricacies. “He was born in the Colonies, and received his title when they were still ours and counted Englishmen. He is Grandmaster there, or so I have heard, but their Mentor exiled him. He has settled here to raise his family, he claims.”

“He is going to France,” the Chevalier revealed, “to take care of his brother’s affairs, or so he told his children.”

“He has no brother,” Mr. Wilkinson said, a meaningful Look lending a mysterious cast to his otherwise unremarkable features.

“Perhaps he meant his wife’s brother,” the Chevalier mused. “Did she have any?”

“I have heard that she did,” Mr. Wilkinson allowed, “and her family was French, so it is possible. But she died some years past, and I do not know that she was in contact with any of her family.” He paused a moment, considering. “I do not know that she was _not_ either.” He paused again, glancing about warily as they approached a hired carriage. “We will have to be cautious now, and play the part of old friends. The driver is a hired man, not one of ours, and cannot be trusted.”

“Of course.” The Chevalier began immediately to regale his companion with the tale of his perilous journey across the Strait, making much of the mild storm, which soon grew to be hurricane, and the lack of accommodations, which he had had to share with all manner of noxious individuals he could not recall ever having met. When this failed he turned to his numerous tragic misadventures, all invented, which he had been forced to undergo alongside his beloved Élise, any number of which they had hardly escaped with their lives, only for her to tragically perish at the Guillotine just weeks – no, days! – before the fall of that wretched villain Robespierre and the end of the Terror. “And if I had not been delayed,” he informed Mr. Wilkinson, “I am certain I could have gotten her out before the guards discovered her, even if my life had been the cost. But alas! The mob had set afire the buildings, and I could not make it through.”

“Most terrible,” agreed Mr. Wilkinson, as their driver deftly avoided a swift curricle which had thought to cut them off. “But tell me again how you escaped the first assault.”

“Ah,” said the Chevalier, “it is quite a story.” And he began to tell some ridiculous tale of how he had broken from prison with naught but a stiff straw and found Élise standing over a guard who had thought to force himself upon her, only to find she had a remarkable fist. From this story, he created others, and in this way they made their way through the crowded London streets, filled with carts piled high with pots and cloth and produce and many other wares besides; horses with riders bedecked in all manner of finery, except the messengers who wore livery; curricles ridden hard as they rushed from one engagement to the next, bearing their young and eligible passengers; and coaches, post-chaises, and barouches driven hither and thither. The Chevalier was eminently grateful when their destination was reached and he might disembark, not least because he feared his ingenuity must fail if he had to come up with one more terrible event he had only _just_ survived, but never so injured or dismayed as to fail the next.

Mr. Wilkinson, who had as much imagination as remarkability, led the way from the coach. They walked through the twisting alleys with their broken cobbles and shadowed eves extending so far over narrow streets barely wide enough for one that the Chevalier could almost believe he had entered a tunnel, to an ordinary door of unpolished wood, set with a singularly unusual knocker, this being shaped like an Eagle’s beak. Mr. Wilkinson took this knocker in hand and struck it in a set pattern. “Remember it,” he warned the Chevalier as the door opened, “or you’ll have no entry.”

“I understand,” the Chevalier acknowledged and, committing the code to memory, descended the stair and entered the Assassin Sanctuary.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the line art. I have no idea when this will post as I've only just started plotting it out. I'll update this with the colored version when it's done. Cookies for anyone who can guess the source of the title's name! Also: Cookies to anyone who recognizes the shout out!


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